


cut my hair (to make you stare)

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Character Study, Child Neglect, Depression, Gen, I don know what else to tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lowercase, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, Self-Hatred, This was a month old vent I found, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violent Thoughts, vent - Freeform, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-05 12:53:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14044689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: leave .





	cut my hair (to make you stare)

her fingers type words without knowing the meanings, spilling her heart onto the page in all lowercase, nonsense of the heart. it doesn't matter—nothing really does.

she weaves stories, anyways, because that's the only thing that they can find something in, though they don't know if it's hope or despair. people click on them, sometimes, leaving kudos and comments that fill her heart with joy, but it's not enough, it's never enough.

and sometimes, in dead fandoms filled with ghosts of fans, there is no clicks, only a empty feeling in her chest. she needs praise, she needs it. tell her she's done good.

she's not used to being told she's done good.

 

there are so many comments she hasn't replied to, maybe too scared of messing up, words never coming to her in conversation, only in riddles and poetry, pretty, but hard to desipher. she doesn't want to speak, to talk with anyone, and yet she craves it oh so much. touch staved, like a baby crying out in the night, looking for attention. that's all it is, a cry for attention.

she doesn't want to be famous. she doesn't want eyes, eyes everywhere, looking at her, judging her. she just wants to be loved, and having no where else to turn to, she looked for popularity, maybe superficial. she wanted to loved, not stared at, but anything was better than nothing, her cracked and bruised hands snatching at anything to fill her heart up, even dirt, seeping into every crack and making her soul dirty. at least it wasn't empty. and, and, at the very least, her talents, her talents should garner praise, yes? but, but, but. she reads others works, and thinks— _am i even really talented at all?_

she tells herself to shut up, hands running through her hair, pull, pull, pulling. it's so horribly plain, brown, brown. it's not fit, not fit at all.

there are twenty files in her drafts, each and everyone unfinished. so many series, too, who still have a question mark where the chapter number should be, the time limit, a month, too fast aprotching, and she's not sure it matters, she's not sure she cares, she hates, hates, hates,

there are scissors in her hands and she laughs and laughs and laughs and cries. her chest hurts.

she goes into work in the morning, blank, not caring. she didn't talk to anyone on her way. her coworkers take it as complacency, saying that she was just a bit shy. she always followed all the rules of team danganronpa, after all, the goody two shoes of the office. she imagines the screaming, pain filled faces they'd have if she lit them on fire. she had heard, once, that it was one of the most painful ways to go.

she gets stopped, a lot, today, people talking about meaningless blabber, mainly about her hair. she wants to skin them. she only smiles pleasantly, nodding along to their talk of bops and bangs, chatter that makes her want to grit her teeth until they shatter.

 

her boss calls her into his office. she thinks she's might be nervous, but she's so out of touch with her own emotions, she's not quite sure. she blandly listens, to him, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, all while wishing he'd just get to the point. she isn't really smiling at him, the only time she ever does is in front of a tv, carnage and bones snapping, blooding spilling forth. but he can't tell that, so he simply smiles in return, trying to make up for years of neglect, trying to pack a million praises in just one expression. what a simple, dull man, her father is. she wishes she had taken advantage of her youth, and killed him before he became this pathetic sight, trying to earn the love he threw away himself with bribes and cheep words. if she had killed him at the age of six, maybe the police never would have caught her, as she smiled like a mockery of her goddess, a different iteration of fan in her veins. she remembers what danganronpa says about pitiful children, more specifically, a green child who tried to be what she was not.

she hated that she saw herself reflected in her green, green eyes. such a failure, that one was, in the end—despite the promise of potential. that was the thing she disliked the most about danganronpa, the characters and ideas were always stunning, but they always seemed to drop the ball somewhere along the way. oh well, it was just fiction. it was just fiction.

it was so easy to shrug off it's faults, because it wasn't real.

that's what she loved about fiction; her mind, she could always change it. she could never change _reality_.

"you're the new ringleader."

she snapped out of her thoughts, head moving to met her bosses gaze. she couldn't help the smile that lifted her cheeks, excitement brewing in her until the bitterness of over steeping sunk in, no sugar sweet enough to mask it. her smile dropped, as heavy as a rock plumenting into water, sinking.

it was another bribe.

it was just another way he was trying to win her back, her skills not really getting her here. she glared, eyes narrowing, bitterness drowning her lungs. how dare he insult her like that, like this.

shed show him, she'd make this season the most liked ever. she'd do everything he hated, too, using tropes he's complained about to her as if they were friends, as if they could ever be friends, as if she could feel something other than the bitter acid of hate towards him.

 

later, she'll realize that he didn't even notice her haircut.

she punches a wall, unsure if it's a smile or a grimace on her face.

her knuckles are bleeding.

 _good_.

  
(it takes her a year to plan the season, bitterness and spite and something raw in her bones, dedication to the craft. by then, her hair has grown out, dyed blue. she made sure it dull, not eye catching enough to draw any attention, especially not in the setting she'd be in.

she wondered if her father would notice her hair was blue, at least.

she wondered if he'd notice anything about her, or about her masterpiece, her story. if he'd finally, _finally_ , understand.

she never finds out.

without even getting the chance to ask, she dies crushed under a rock, and wonders if it was worth it.)


End file.
